


The Wanderer (Maglor's story)

by orphan_account



Series: Alternative Perspective Character Studies [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Ainur - Freeform, Aman (Tolkien), Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, Elf/Vala Relationship(s), First Kinslaying, Flight of the Noldor, Fëanor's death, Gen, Kinslaying at alqualonde, M/M, Maiar, Oath of Fëanor, Post-Darkening of Valinor, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, The Valar, Third Kinslaying, Valinor, bi maglor, bisexual maglor, implied russingon, implied tyelkorome, maglor character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-20 10:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13715901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The silmarillion as told from Maglor's perspective. Some implied Russingon and a whole bunch of vala/elf relationships.





	1. Love songs.

More than anything in the world, he loved music. He was a show-off; could play five instruments deaf and ten more blind, and his voice was clearer and more powerful than any other noldo- even more so than some Vala. His mother had once told him that he had inherited his dedication to his craft from his father, but he disagreed; he would never live up to the great Fëanáro. His father had crafted him a new lyre for his birthday, infinitely better than any other he’d ever used, and he’d found out later from Maitimo that it’d only taken him three hours.

 _And_ he was one of seven; to have the time and energy for all that _and_ seven children was unheard of, unprecedented and unmatched. He was nowhere near as great as his father with no children, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t want any. He wasn’t like Maitimo or Tyelkormo, who remained unmarried, or Carnistir, who simply didn’t like his wife very much. He just couldn’t find the time or energy to lie with his wife after all of the hours he spent on his music.

It was okay; she didn’t seem to mind. She spent her time locked away in her studio, surrounded by all the luxurious fabrics that royalty could acquire, stitching together designs with which to adorn his brothers so that they would become the next overnight trend. He loved her work, and he loved his songs, so he would often play for her in her studio while he watched her work, and that was how they loved each other.

He wasn’t sure he was _in love_ with her, though. They were friends, sure, but where was the burning passion he had been taught to expect? The butterflies? The pain? Love was…easy.

He’d seen love in so many different ways; his parents’ passionate embraces, his brother’s unsubtle flirting, even the stories of the Valar marriages that had become the myth of old. He had written a ballad for each coupling himself, then moved on to the maiar couples, too. It’d been going well until he’d found himself stuck on Ossë and Uinen because, although they appeared often enough individually, he had never seen them together.

And then Tyelko began making claims about Oromë that threw _that_ ballad into question, as well, and it fell apart from there. He began to notice all of the faults in _all_ of the marriages of the Valar, as Yavanna looked at Varda with more love than she ever gifted Aulë, and Aulë favoured work over his wife, and Varda always looked so sad.

His parents began to fight shortly after the twins were born. His mother claimed that his father cared more about his work than their sons, and that he put his petty feud with Nolofinwë above their children’s happiness. He didn’t need to ask her what she meant by that.

Maybe his was love for his wife; after all, what did he know? He was happy, and she was happy and wasn’t that what really counted? Happiness seemed like a reasonable goal. His parents no longer seemed happy, though he knew there was a time when they had been- extraordinarily so. Something had fallen apart for them- they had burnt so bright and so powerfully only to burn out.

Maybe having seven children was just too much.

Maybe having no children was just the right amount.

He did miss raising his brothers, though; cleaning Tyelko’s cuts, helping Moryo braid his hair- wilder than any of their family except himself and their mother-, teaching Curvo how play the harp- even if he was bad at it-, and rocking Ambarussa to sleep on those nights where all their parents did was yell. They had all been small once, but they all grew up- and any child of his would be the same. He wondered if that was why his parents had so many; so that they would always have something small to care for. He could see the appeal.

Though, with so many siblings from them, he doubted he’d ever need that many kids to always have a smaller relative to coddle (if only Tyelko would hurry up and get married, and Moryo would actually start liking his wife). Tyelpë was already the cutest kid he knew, so he didn’t mind being designated babysitter- he’d play for him when he couldn’t sleep and tell him embarrassing stories about his father’s childhood. All the things a good uncle should do.

His music would never grow old; it would always be there for him to nurture and build on until it became something even greater than he could ever imagine. And it would never stop getting better. He was happy to devote himself entirely to his music, even if it meant he passed up other things and, besides, he had all of eternity to waste, did he not?


	2. Goodbye.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor bids his wife and the life he has always known goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reupload because I had started a rewrite really late at night and then only realised that it was completely incomprehensible the next morning.

He sat in the square, head in his hands, watching an ant crawl across the cobblestones through the gaps between his fingers. It had no idea what was going on and he envied it- all it had to do was carry home the wilted leaves from the trees for its queen, and never worry about why those leaves were there. He felt a chill against his bare shoulders, but he didn’t shiver. He felt the presence of darkness around himself, but he didn’t sleep. There were people staring at him- people trying to figure out why _he_ of all people had gotten involved, but he didn’t care about them. He cared about Calima, who watched him with the softest, warmest gaze, yet the most disappointed of them all.

He didn’t meet her eyes; he knew he would fall apart if he did.

“Sorry,” he was speaking more to his knees than to his wife.

She sighed, “what’s done is done- will you be coming home before you leave?”

She wasn’t angry- she was never angry. The truth was he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, he was so painfully tired that he hadn’t been able to make it all the way across the square before collapsing onto the ground. It was some horrible side-effect of what he’d seen.

He hadn’t looked for long- he’d seen blood and then ran outside again. He supposed he regretted not facing up to what he saw, but he couldn’t find it in himself to go back to willingly look upon his grandfather’s corpse. Maybe he thought that if he wasn’t there to see it, it didn’t happen, but it did happen. It and everything else.

He desperately wanted to go home- to let Calima brush through his hair and clean the tears from his cheeks and to curl up in the softest wool blankets by the fireplace and listen to the wood crackle until he fell asleep. He wanted to wake up to _light_ and make breakfast while humming something upbeat and kiss Calima’s eyelids until they fluttered open. He couldn’t go home, though. He couldn’t defy his father’s wishes and he couldn’t taunt himself with normality and he couldn’t fucking move. He couldn’t even lift his head up to look at her.

He was so fucking _tired._

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “you deserve better.”

“But you’re what I got- “she got down on her knees and pulled his arm over her shoulder, and heaved him up, “come on.”

“I can’t- “

“I’m taking you to your father,” she wrapped her arm tight around his waist.

He tried not to put too much of his weight onto her, but she seemed not to be bothered- after all, she did spend hours lugging piles of heavy fabric around her workshop. They made their way toward the edge of the square- he was surprised to find that the twins had been waiting for him, but the sight of them filled him with a little more vigour and he made an effort to stand up straight by himself; if he had to appear strong for anyone, it was for them. Calima didn’t let go of his waist.

“Kano!” Ambarto rushed forward- “we need to get going- father’s gone to speak to mother, but he’ll want to leave as soon as he’s finished.”

“That quickly?” He ruffled his brother’s hair.

“Our uncles are coming, too, and Írimë- a lot happened while you were…well, doing whatever you were doing,” Ambarussa shook his head.

“Hey,” Calima took him by his shoulders. Her eyes were the warmest shade of amber that he had ever seen, like molten sugar, and set in a permanent smile. Her pale-cream skin was spattered with light freckles. Her hair was cropped to her chin, so that wisps of her curly strawberry-blonde hair brushed against her cheeks in the breeze. She was so beautiful- had he never noticed how beautiful she was before? “You know I can’t go with you, right?”

He nodded- he hadn’t expected her to come. Even if she had decided to go with them, he would’ve told her to stay behind. It still hurt to hear it out loud. It felt more final- less like some dramatic opera that’d he’d write out of boredom, “then I guess this is goodbye?”

She nodded.

He waved his arm to dismiss his brothers, who were staring way too hard. Did they even know what was going on? She placed a gentle kiss against his lips.

She felt bad for him- she’d miss him in the way one missed a friend that had moved away when you were still children- thinking about him every once in a while, and quietly mourning all of the lost possibilities. Her kiss lingered for a few moments. There was something final there, too: she didn’t believe he’d come home any time soon. He supposed that he didn’t believe that either.

He kissed her forehead, and then they nodded at each other, and went their separate ways. He felt a little better, though, for knowing that even if everything went to hell, she’d be home and okay. He only hoped that she wouldn’t wait around for him for too long; he knew that the Valar were against second marriages, but he hoped that they’d make an exception for her.

He turned to join his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be very grateful if I could get a little advice: at the moment I'm of two minds as to how to end this (it seems early, In know, but I like to foreshadow.) Basically the options are 1) have a new romantic interest or 2) have no romantic interests beyond Calima (who's only very slightly romantic.) What would you guys like to see most?
> 
> (I'll probably paste these notes onto the next chapter reupload, too so that more people see them, so if you're seeing this multiple times, I'm very sorry!|)


	3. The Lady of the Sea.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-kinslaying at Alqualonde. Maglor reminisces about the first time he visited the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reupload, though nothing has changed from the original. Also, I like scary deep sea monster!Uinen, so there's a lot of that here.

He let his fingers lie in the cool, clear water, watching the blood cloud his view of the stones that covered the sea bed; soft pale greys and silvery whites shaped by Uinen herself. He had seen her before twice; once was when he was in Alqualondë for a distant relative’s wedding. She had watched him from the sea, with skin as white as the light-bleached rocks that she sat on, long hair of ocean blue dripping into the water- eyes pure black pupil all the way through. She was a creature of the deep sea, who tended to the sunken monsters with the brightly coloured shallow water fish, crunching their bones in her sharp teeth. She had smiled at him when she saw him staring, as a predator smiles at prey it knows it will particularly enjoy hunting. He’s caught Maitimo’s hand, but by the time his brother had turned to look she had slipped back into the deep.

The second time, she had been just a glimpse of the sparkling rose scales that traced along her spinal cord as she stole the fish from Tyelko’s outstretched hand the moment he looked away. Its bones had washed up on the beach later in that same day.

His blood pooled against the liquid coal of the sea in darkness, lit only by the torches on the boat. Would she drink his blood? She’d enjoy it; less than ample payment for his crimes. She had known this would happen; she’d been waiting for an excuse to eat him since she first laid eyes on him that day in the waters of Alqualondë. He feared her more than any other thing he could think of- even more than Morgoth himself. She would tear him to pieces someday.

Uinen did not work in storms- no, that was her spouse’s job. Uinen would not wreck their ship (not theirs- stolen) against the white cliffs of Aman, instead she would wait until she smelt their blood among the salt, then send her monsters to pick them off one-by-one and take their bodies back to her domain, where she would crush their limbs between her needle-point teeth, tasting the blood of the people she loved that had yet to be cleaned from beneath their fingernails.

“Kano, that’s horrifying,” Ambarussa stared at him with wide, blue eyes that wavered in their gaze, but settled just right of his own. He hadn’t realised that he had been singing, but now all of those around him were silent. He took his hand from the water, letting it drip- the cut itself was just a nick at the base of his palm; most of the blood had been that of his victims.

“Sorry,” but he knew he had been singing truth; people spoke of Uinen as if she was some benevolent force of love and all the good the ocean could bring, but he knew better; he knew her as the woman who returned Ossë from Morgoth’s clutches; he knew her as the woman who sacrificed some of her good in return. She was a lover of _all_ the creatures of the seas: that included its monsters, for not all that was deadly was born of Morgoth. The ocean was a wilder place- not governed by the same code as the land. It was a vessel of freedom, where normal moral code no longer reached.

The wound bled no longer.

Ambarussa watched him with caution, as if waiting for him to break into tears at last. He wanted to- desperately so—but he had to be stronger than that- stronger at least than his little brother. The twins would look to him; he couldn’t disappoint them. He was tired, but he forced himself to stand and watch as the land they left behind faded into nothing. He would need Calima to support him no longer, as long as he found a reason to support himself.

He turned to face his brother, and wiped the caked blood from his chin with his still-wet hand: “how are you feeling?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he placed a gentle kiss upon his brother’s brow, “find Curvo for me, will you?”

“Why?”

“I haven’t seen him safe yet.”

Ambarussa nodded, then left him alone to watch the darkened sea. In its waves he sought a glimpse of the pail glimmer of flushed scales- the gentle shifts in the tide- the gleam of white in the inky deep that would precurse his end. He murmured a song of repentance under his breath.

Uinen would hear.

Uinen could hear.

He knew her presence by the way his blood was sucked out of sight as it dripped into the water- he had known her presence by the way the birds swarmed just in the distance- the way he only felt safe when miles from the nearest sea.

Since that day in Alqualondë, Uinen had never stopped watching him- waiting for the scent of his blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys rather see a romantic or non-romantic ending? I'm still trying to decide whether to leave it open-ended or explicit. (I won't tell you who the romance would be with because spoilers, but I can tell you that they're not noldor.)


	4. Grieving.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-ship burning, Maglor watches his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this!

He could still feel the sting of black smoke in the corners of his eyes, clogging his tear ducts; it’d crept down the back of his throat, grating in his lungs, still burning hot against his ribcage. He couldn’t sing in that state. He couldn’t find the motivation to pick up an instrument, either- his fingertips were still recovering from the blisters. He’d held the hot torch too long- he’d only been burnt a little. He couldn’t imagine…

He watched his brothers in their new lives, taking mental notes of their mannerisms and gestures, knowing that a time would come when it was down to himself- his voice- his music to redeem them.

Nelyo was the responsible one; man of the household when the real man had lost it, tending to trivial matters, settling disputes. He kept close watch on their siblings’ habits, kept them healthy- alive. Some days he would follow Tyelko into the woods and take note of all of the plants he found, making lists and diagrams of what was safe to eat and what would have you vomiting blood if you so much as smelt it. He worked closely with Tyelko, who had a sixth sense for that sort of thing. He hid is grief well, but Macalaurë noticed anyway; the redness around the corners of his eyes in the mornings, the way the skin on his lips was cracked, the flush about his nose- the dry torn skin over his knuckles. His hair was loosely tied back, barely brushed and split at the ends. He cared the bare minimum for himself.

Tyelko was barely around: he spent his days prowling through the forests- looking for new creatures, he had claimed. Macalaurë knew that that was not what he was looking for. He was spiralling, getting more and more reckless, making his traps crueller, hunting only the rarest creatures. He never stayed home for long; sometimes he was gone for days at a time. When he returned, his voice was hoarse, hair matted, and skin covered with dried mud and blood. He’d bitten his nails short to keep the dirt from getting there, too.

_Is he even angry at me?_ He had offered up the question to the darkened forest, voice low and rasping, _does he even care anymore?_

Macalaurë had forced him to stay put for a week, helping him wash the filth from his hair and skin with buckets of river water- boiled over the fire so that he wouldn’t freeze. He’d wept quietly, letting his tears mix with the water as it ran down his cheeks, _why can’t he bring him back?_ Over, and over. A mantra of hurt. Macalaurë had kissed the back of his head, though he knew his brother wasn’t so fond of physical affection- he claimed he was too old to be coddled—but then he had let him cradle him in his arms until he’d stopped shaking.

Moryo kept to himself and kept busy; spending his time taking note and naming every single weapon they’d brought with them that could still be used in a fight. He reminded them that war was coming, repeating the line over and over until someone interrupted him. He made them all schedules to follow, though only he and Maitimo humoured him. Things ran smoothly anyway.

Curvo worked. He spent hours in the armoury without break, sharpening swords, axes and knifes, fixing the broken or melting them down to make new, laying gemstones retrieved from jewellery into their hilts and decorating their blades. He began to experiment, too, setting the jagged stones from the lake in place alongside the sparkling jewels, dressing them to look like the eggs of some elegant bird with colourful plume- the kind that had always followed the king Manwë around. He brought his son with him to sit in the corner of the room and play with the metal scraps; he hadn’t considered that that would be dangerous until Maitimo brought it up.

They hadn’t ever paid that much attention to how young Curvo was until then- when it became so painfully apparent that he wasn’t ready for the life they were living.

Minyarussa- he stayed away from everyone else; he didn’t like seeing anyone other than Maitimo. He supposed that that was fair.

Fëanáro was distant. He didn’t speak to any of them without formality, and he certainly didn’t treat any of them as more than his subjects- not even Curvo. He was the only person not to attempt to speak to Minyarussa, too. He didn’t despise his father, though; he pitied him for all he had become had only weighed him down, and sooner or later his own achievements would drown him.

And himself? He supposed he observed himself, too. The others had numbed themselves to their own suffering, but he let his tears come- he let them burn as they hit the smoke still caught in the corners of his eyes. It hurt him, and it hurt that it hurt him. He couldn’t write- couldn’t sing nor play, so all he could do was cry- cry and watch his brothers stifle their grief with no thought of that damage it would do them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love Celegorm as a character, so this chapter does focus a little more on him than the others that I've written.
> 
> Again, I need feedback on whether to go for a romantic ending or a non-romantic/open ended ending for Maglor. I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	5. A flare in the dark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor finally feels the true power of Feanor in the moment of his demise.

He felt as if goodbyes were becoming second nature to him- at first, he didn’t realise it, but they could take different forms: goodnights, apologies, kisses, and pleas all counted. Sometimes a blood curdling scream into the darkness of the sky, when no one was watching but everyone was listening was enough of a goodbye. He still had ash on his clothes.

He had expected to feel weak again; he had almost expected to collapse against the wet grass beneath his feet and die as he stood. Instead he felt power and strength surge in his veins- a fire lit that he had only ever been able to guess at from the descriptions his brothers gave him.

_You are a son of Fëanáro, do you not burn within?_

He had always been the quietest- the calmest of his brothers, following more in his mother’s tracks than his father’s. But the flame that burned bright within all of the suns of Fëanáro had awoken within him at last, and consumed every last drop of peace, if only for a moment. He had a taste of the power he could possess- access to all of the creative energy he could dream of. All of his brothers had felt it, too, and felt how they truly _became_ themselves, and knew no fear.

He breathed into the darkness, watching his breath, hot in the cool hair, condense into clouds of almost smoke. He felt wind on the inside of his lungs, feeding the fire. _We have spirit, we have spirit._ He could see so much more than before; every detail in every leaf of every tree; he could hear the ripples in the lake breaking against its shores from so far away.

He could _feel_ his brothers around him- sense exactly how they felt and see himself exactly how they saw him; melancholic, lonely, peaceful. No longer.

Then it was over, and he exhaled sharply.

Tyelko shivered, Curvo laughed, Nelyo shook his head- the rest of them just sat, feeling the silence in the air- feeling awake for the first time in months.

“Eru, that felt fucking _good,”_ Tyelko shifted, “what the _fuck_.”

He just kept breathing, feeling the weight of his body in place upon the ground, letting the buzz run through his fingertips.

 _We’re doomed._ He choked back a sob. They shouldn’t have sworn that wretched oath again- not after what had already happened because of its flawed conditions. He cursed his father, though he knew that no curse he could make would ever be worse than what was already set in motion. He wondered how their mother must’ve felt when Ambarto died; that sort of thing had never happened before. Could a mother feel her son’s death from a million miles away? Could a wife feel her husband’s soul turn to flame?

He hoped that she wouldn’t cry for him, when it was his turn to die, though he knew he couldn’t ask that much. She had too much love for him- for all of them—not to grieve for them when they died.

Their father had loved them, too.

He felt it with the same certainty as the earth beneath their feet; he had given them all of the power that he could in his dying moment- his last ever action was to give them the energy they needed to keep going.

 _Only so you can complete the oath? No, not that at all._ Their father had loved them, truly and with everything he had. He did not want them to die- he knew that if they did, they wouldn’t return. He did not want them to fade away; he wanted them to complete their goal and return victorious, waving the banner of the house of Fëanáro proudly in the halls of the Valar. But he knew that was not how they ended- he was wiser than his father, and far less proud.

He wondered if his brothers would be cynical- he knew they had felt it, too. Minyarussa certainly would be, and he didn’t fault him for it in any way. Maybe he was being too hopeful, after all.

“We need to go back quickly,” Maitimo was always the responsible one, “we’ll make a plan after we’ve- after we’ve had some rest.”

He felt impossibly heavy when he looked at his older brother- king now, while his face still bore the purity of youth.

Something would go wrong.

He would be forced to say goodbye again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't technically NOT canon, but there's no canon basis for it. I have this theory that elves can 'donate' parts of their fear as a part of healing and childrearing, so as Feanor died, he gave as much of his fea as he could to his sons to keep them living, knowing full well that they might die of grief if he didn't.


	6. Others' lovers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the absence of Maedhros, Maglor and Fingon take comfort in each other's company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't supposed to be shippy, but I definitely think Maglor and Fingon would have a very unique bond, so I'm exploring it here.

Technically, Fingon wasn’t supposed to be there; they’d agreed to keep to their separate sides. It was to avoid conflict, and there would be conflict; that was as certain as the air they breathed. Technically, they were supposed to be feuding. They were not.

If there was one thing Maglor couldn’t do, it was find it in his heart to hate the house of Fingolfin.

Fingon’s wound had become infected and the Fëanorians were the only ones with the in-depth local knowledge needed to find the plants best used to heal him. Of course, that was until they met the Sindar. He had never considered himself as being close with Fingon- friendly, maybe; he certainly didn’t despise him in the way that his brothers did, and he found him trustworthy. It came with maturity. He treated the wound himself.

 _Why can’t you help him?_ Inevitable question-

 _We can’t go home with an oath unfulfilled-_ inevitable answer.

 _You’ve already lost one brother; wouldn’t it be better to give this up?_ He remembered Fingon saying it, but it felt like one of his own thoughts- he didn’t like talking about these things with Fingon, but he tolerated it. He tended to him in secret, not knowing what his brothers would do if they found out that he was helping him.

In time, Fingon learnt to stop talking about those sorts of things around him, and to keep his mouth shut regarding their oath- Maglor knew he was right, but the hindsight was unhelpful, and he’d rather not think too hard about the inevitable doom he and his brothers had wrought unto themselves.

Instead, they talked about themselves: ‘so, how are you today’s and ‘I’m fine, thanks’s with all the fancy trimmings they’d learnt to add to their speech as young princes. It was a mockery of everything they used to be, but it was fun. They talked about their situations with the same gravity that they applied to petty misfortunes.

_You know, I had the most awful journey through the north to get here, and then I got here only to find my fiancé had been captured._

_Captured? That reminds me; my brother’s also been captured- who’d’ve thought?_

_Shocking, isn’t it?_

They pretended to know nothing about each other, too. It was easier than trying to reconcile their supposed distaste for each other with their affection- and there was affection between them. Theirs’ became a language of touch, which was inevitable when healing required physical contact, and secrecy required silence. They would trace messages to each other on the inside of their palms, squeeze each other’s hands when they noticed they were shaking, push their hair away from their eyes when he started to drift away. Their interactions were apologies, repeated until they meant too little. Or too much.

His hair was the same texture as Maitimo’s: thick and soft, the kind that was easy to grow long. A point of familiarity- the first he noticed, but he began to see them everywhere, and then all of the differences- the unfamiliar struck him, too, just as hard.

Fingon did not calm. Even after he was healed he claimed he felt lame- tied down. He continued to visit Maglor, too, though then he _really_ wasn’t supposed to. He’d base around his quarters, debating with no one in particular about everything that he saw. He could see that he was closer to reaching his breaking point- someday there would be injustice that he could no longer tolerate.

That was unfamiliar; Maitimo had been complacent in allowing those things to slide- he wasn’t a one-man operation in the way Fingon was. He’d rather work until he had the support of everyone- he’d rather make it easy.

_I’d understand if it was as hopeless as you say, but you have so many options._

Maglor tried to talk him down with promises that it would all be okay- but Fingon saw through the bullshit. He knew that there was no end- stalemate. He would talk through their every option until he talked himself to death while Maglor tried to think of ways to dismiss himself so that he could finally get some _sleep._

He knew they had so many options- he knew, and he couldn’t find a way to follow through with any of them. So many options and only one goddamn chance- only one try, so they’d better get it right the first time around.

And he was so _tired._ His brother had left behind people divided and scared, who all just wanted to go home. And he was trying so _hard_ to find them the perfect solution; the ultimate failsafe that would fix everything once and for all. Nelyo had always been able to calm their fears with his ability to talk through even the most illogical terror until it made perfect sense- planning them solution after solution until their fears were dead. He’d learnt that tactic back home when their brothers were young and prone to losing their composure. He’d said he picked it up from their mother.

Whenever people told Maglor he was the most like Nerdanel of all of the brothers, he thought about that technique.

Maglor had never been good at it.

Fingon could do something similar, though, and it was soothing to listen to him; almost like having his brother back.

Maitimo hadn’t planned for being captured; when he listed every single eventuality, the possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He thought betrayal meant being killed and being killed only.

_And then what?_

_Then you’ll be in charge, Kano._

He hadn’t wanted that at all, but they agreed that no one else could be trusted.

 _Maybe the best kings were the ones who never wanted to be king,_ he’d mused, but Maglor didn’t believe him. It was a fundamental misunderstanding of why those who didn’t want to hold power were good; they were selfless, with no greed for glory, power or money. It was a common mistake. He told Fingon that, too, and he agreed.

 _A bad king is one who doesn’t care for his people,_ he’d declared, _but you care, Maglor._

_Only because I have to._

_Then you’re an okay king._

_Are kings allowed to be just ‘okay’?_

Maitimo would’ve left Fingolfin in charge, if he’d been there; they’d been close, after all. He’d been fond of all the house of Fingolfin.

Maglor didn’t find it hard to see why Maitimo had loved Fingon; especially when he sat, high cheekbones- proud face caught in the flicker of the candlelight, his blue eyes holding the same intensity as the brightest stars- blazing points of light that held within them all that existed and all that didn’t yet exist. He was striking, and he was wise to rival the Valar themselves- if the Valar were indeed wise.

He had tried to stop him.

It was his fault- he’d lamented that if his brother had been killed, at least they’d’ve had a body to bury, and some sense of finality to mourn. Fingon had stared into his cup for a full minute before speaking.

_I’ll go and get him._

He’d tried to protest, but none of his arguments seemed to stand up. At least not to Fingon, his brother’s love, who promised that things would be better when he returned. And he _would_ return, he said.

 _Yes, because you’ve been thinking this through for a whole minute!_ he hadn’t meant to yell, but the fire of Fëanor still burned hot in his soul, and he couldn’t let Fingon take himself to his death, not when Maitimo had loved him so much. Fingon didn’t flinch- this kind of thing wasn’t a surprise. He knew how their family worked.

_You don’t know how many hours- days I’ve spent thinking about how I’d make this right. Maglor, do yourself a favour and don’t worry for me._

He kissed both of his cheeks before he left- because they were friends now- they were close.

He only felt dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please envision the kiss at the end as how Europeans kiss friends. I'm European, so it wasn't written to be romantic, but more familial (as in 'familiar') Also, my Maglor is really affectionate, which I only realised while writing this. I also feel like this moment is where he begins to start maturing into the person at the end, who would willingly choose to break his oath when he's so close to completing it.
> 
> As for Fingon, I've been trying to keep his characterisation consistent, but its been pretty hard. I'm not sure if it's just something I notice because I'm writing it, though, so I'd appreciate your opinions on this!


	7. Six sons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A length of peace. Maglor laments not being with his brothers as much.

They split up, which he lamented over and over. It would be their downfall- while they were apart they were alone, and while they were alone they were vulnerable. He’d managed to persuade Curvo and Tyelko to stick together, at least, though he had to appeal to Celegorm’s inherent desire to mess with his younger brother as much as possible. He also found himself worrying that they would only cause more trouble together- he had originally tried to persuade Amras to go with, but he wasn’t having it.

He said he wanted to be alone- that he was an adult and he could take care of himself.

Maglor didn’t tell him that he _wanted_ to take care of him- that he missed looking after someone, and that he wouldn’t even be able to babysit Tyelpë anymore, now that Curufin was moving so far away. Maybe he would start a creche.

Caranthir also refused to go with anyone else, probably because he didn’t _like_ anyone else enough. Maglor tried to reason with him- we’d be in separate buildings. It was always a solid no. He had to accept it- his brothers were grown men; they could do whatever they pleased. He had hoped the sense of family would be enough to keep them close, though.

Maybe they had been cooped up for so long that they were all desperate to strike out on their own at last- their house had never been that large. Their rooms had all run in a long line down a candlelit corridor, adorned with their grandmother’s tapestries. On one end was the forge, and on the other was the studio, and the rest of what they needed was in the entrance hall, or the rooms built onto the side of it. Ambarussa’s room had been right next to their parents, and they had heard their parent’s arguments more times than anyone could ever want.

When they were little, they used to make the walk down the corridor to Maglor’s room and crawl into bed with him, their feet freezing from walking on the cool stone, sometimes their hands were cold, too- they had only just learned to walk, after all. He had been married shortly after.

In the end, it was Maedhros who he ended up staying near which, by extension, meant staying near Fingon. They didn’t _technically_ live together, but they took turns taking leave to be with each other. It wasn’t very subtle, but it was subtle enough that no one complained, and he supposed that was good enough. It meant two less-than-ideal things for Maglor, though: one, when Fingon was there, he was the youngest, with the two older family members that had always fussed over him when he was a child. They still did, too, in different ways; asking him if he was eating well, insisting he come riding with them, asking him if he needed help with his work. He felt like a child around them.

Maybe he should’ve been relieved when Maedhros went to stay with Fingon, but then he was alone. He didn’t go with him; it didn’t feel right. He had gotten a letter from Fingolfin explicitly saying that he was welcome, but he knew that it wasn’t the same as with Maedhros. Maedhros didn’t burn any ships.

 _You’re a good kid, Maglor,_ the letter had sent, _we want you here._

 _No, you don’t._ He wasn’t a child, either.

Maedhros would pay someone to watch him and write back; he thought that he hadn’t noticed them- a different person every time, who would always come to his door at a ridiculous hour with some benign request to make sure that he wasn’t there. After a while, he started pretending to be away, putting out all of the lights and sitting silently in the dark until they left. After a longer while, he just yelled ‘tell him I went on holiday to Sirion’ and got back to his work.

One time one of them answered _how about I tell him you’re a sassy little shit instead?_ And he opened the door to find that Amras visiting. His voice was so much more different than before. None of their other brothers ever visited, but at least he knew they were alive- Moryo from the letters he sent- Tyelko and Curvo from the complaint letters that Finrod sent.

Things were peaceful enough- their oath wasn’t going anywhere, but they had a chance to sit back and relax for a while. The peace was nice.

He would’ve paid for things to stay that way forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is pretty happy to be back with Fingon. He's pretty worried about Maglor's wellbeing, because he doesn't know about the strength that he's managed to build up since they left Aman.


	8. The violence in necessity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different side to Maglor comes out in the midst of battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHATS UP I wrote an even shorter chapter- in case you're wondering, there's no real theme or reason to these because I write by opening up the document, thinking about the character and the moment and then just letting the muse take control.

By this point, violence was second nature- instilled in him by his father, his brothers; embedded in his being by repetition after repetition. With repetition came practice, with practice came skill, and with skill came style. He set himself aside from his brothers as the last to learn armed combat and was one of the best.

Maedhros was powerful, with a strong swing and the force of three grown men behind each strike. He was relentless- on the offensive all of the time; he forced his opponents to stay defensive and retreat. Maedhros had never lost a fight.

Celegorm fought quick and targeted with the skill of the hunter that he was, but he was liable to drop everything and brawl hand-to-hand. He was graceful nonetheless. Caranthir and Curufin followed his example, though with far less grace and far more brutality.

Amras fought smart- he was still smaller than the rest of his brothers, so he found his tactic in sneaking up behind his opponents and killing silently with a single strike. He wore shawls of dark fabric to cover his bright hair.

Maglor had developed his own style with the express purpose of countering each of them. He learnt how to disarm first, preying on any opening, no matter how quickly it was closed- and he trained himself to always be on his guard, listening out behind him while keeping his peripheral vision sharp. He was not graceful, but practical, and he was the only other brother to never have lost a fight. He was lethal.

He executed the traitor swiftly and efficiently, the shining metal of his word slicing cleanly through the flesh of his neck- barely a single drop of blood left on the mirror surface of his weapon. His head rolled on the ground.

_Any others will be dealt with likewise._

Had he felt anything? He supposed he must’ve in the moment- he’d been a trusted ally- he had the makings of a good friend. Now he had the makings of food for the wild birds of Morgoth that scouted the battlefields for scraps. It was a shame, true, but it was unavoidable. Besides, he had too high a body count to his name to mourn one more- no less a traitor.

Would Calima be disappointed, horrified with him? Maybe so. Maybe she’d want revenge against him for all that he had done, but he couldn’t fault her for that. He also couldn’t empathise with her for that; not _all_ he had done was merciless killing in the name of his father’s cursed oath. There were some things that had to be done for the good of others- he couldn’t find it in himself to regret that.

This was war, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor canonically publically executed a guy. Wild. 
> 
> I don't even think he batted an eye- in his view, he did what he had to, and what he had to do happened to not be great. I find this side to him really interesting. I would've written more, but I feel like the chapter came to a really nice close naturally.
> 
> Now that I'm all caught up, I'm going to go back to alternating between stories- speaking of, Fingon's might get a couple of extra chapters (he's also what I'm currently working on.)


	9. In the darkness we heal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor finally discusses their losses with his two remaining brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got very sad while writing this. I hope you enjoy.

They made a home in the abandoned villa, fixing up just enough rooms to live in, leaving just enough in decay to keep people from knocking on the door. They no longer wanted space from each other- they often shared a bed during the nights when the wind chill crept in under the doors and the moon couldn’t breach the clouds. It wasn’t proper. It was something they would’ve done as kids. Maybe they wanted to be kids again; didn’t they have that right? They huddled around the light of a single candle flame, threatening to flicker out with every breath.

They had thrown their brothers into the mass grave- they didn’t have the energy for another burial. They didn’t have the courage for tombstones. He felt the ghost of the dirt trapped under his finger nails badly enough, best not to think of the ghosts of his brothers. Best not…best not? Repress and forget- that was how he lived. Those words didn’t seem positive.

“We can’t keep going like this,” he looked up at his brothers as they sat around the table, the steam from their stew rising to obscure their faces. If he squinted, it almost looked like their heads were on fire- what with their hair. He felt as if he’d stepped blindly off a cliff when he thought about fire.

“What do you mean?” Amras shared a voice with Tyelko. He knew it was insane, but he almost felt his ghost watching them. Then again, it wasn’t like they were ever getting to Mandos.

“Pretending it’s all okay.”

“That’s not what we’re doing,” there was an edge in Maedhros’ voice.

“I can’t even remember the last time we said Amrod’s name aloud.”

Amras got up and left, leaving his meal half-finished on the table. Maedhros didn’t move.

“Do you see this?”

“Let him be, Kano.”

“Some day he’ll be- someday he’ll be dead, too, and we’ll never have talked about this,” he felt his voice cracking. He didn’t care, “we never talked about him with the others- they died with the burden of never having talked about anything.”

“Look, we talk about _them_ ; is that not enough?”

“It’s different when you bury someone yourself,” he could hear Amras still listening from the doorway. He pretended not to. “and what about our father?”

“Look, I know we’re all grieving, but this has served us well- “

“What about _Fingon_? He was my friend, too, and you won’t even let me say his name- “

Maedhros dismissed himself.

He wasn’t even sure that he cared. He knew these were sore points- they hurt him, too—but he’d had enough of leaving his wounds alone to get infected. It was best to clean an open wound, even if it stung at the time. He was sick of hurting.

But Maedhros came back with whiskey and Amras and poured them each a glass.

“So, you want to talk?”

Amras started- yelling about their father and listing all of the different small mistakes he had made- none of the big ones: they were too obvious. He listed everything he remembered and loathed, and wish could’ve gone differently.

“I just wish he hadn’t been such a prideful bastard- “he eventually choked out, staring into his glass- “I wish _I_ wasn’t such a prideful bastard. I wish we’d talked. I wish he’d have apologised. If he’d tried to- I wish he’d known that if he tried to embrace me, I wouldn’t have stopped him,” he clasped a hand over his mouth. Maglor took his free hand- let him lean against his chest, “and I still hate mirrors- I still mistake myself for him sometimes.”

“It’s alright,” Maglor kissed the top of his head.

“I miss him.”

Maedhros didn’t talk, but his eyes gleamed wet with unwept tears. He turned a single silver cuff between his fingers- the one he used to wear in his ear. The metal still shone as new- he must’ve been cleaning it. He looked up at them. His gaze told Maglor that he knew- that they had the exact same premonition. He clutched Amras a little tighter.

“It’s the worst feeling,” he didn’t offer anything else.

“Thank you,” Amras excused himself.

Maglor waited until he heard the echo of his door closing from down the hall- “we’re going to lose him.”

“I know.”

“We can’t do anything about it.”

“I know- don’t think about it; the worrying is worse.”

Maglor’s breath caught, “you _knew._ ”

“I was so afraid- “Maedhros bit his lip, “I was so afraid the entire time we were searching. It was almost a relief to find his body.”

“’It’s over now’, right?”

Maedhros stared at him.

“That was what you said- what you said when we found him- you don’t remember?”

“I didn’t think you heard.”

“It’s over now…”

“For now,” it was such a small addition.

“It’s over, for now.” It was such a large difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next will be whichever chapter happens to come chronologically! I'm writing Mags and Mae chapters simultaneously at the moment (which is why you're getting two in one day.)
> 
> Also, about that coffee shop AU I proposed on Fingon's fic: would you be interested? I do intend to do more oneshots before I commit to something that big again, but I'm excited about the idea. 
> 
> Another proposed concept: I have some short drabbles about Celegorm's family- would you guys find that interesting?


	10. Guilty as charged.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and his twin sons. Kidnap kids. Whatever their relationship is. NOTICE: I've changed my main username to kanafiinwe (to match my tumblr) and after this series is finished, I'll be posting everything on there rather than with this pseud!

The first time it happened, the twins were still too small to look after themselves. He woke up one morning and he couldn’t move; he lay still as if his blood had turned to liquid lead overnight, weighing him down. He could barely talk. He couldn’t call for help. His first thought had been about the twins; if they needed him, he wouldn’t be able to go to them.

Maedhros figured out something was wrong quickly enough; he still had a sixth sense for that sort of thing. Maglor let him take care of them, though he knew it hurt him. He had brought them to him and helped him prop himself up with a pillow so that he could hold them for a while. They only knew a few words and they still couldn’t walk properly; they were helpless, yet he felt healing energy flow through their tiny hands when they grabbed at his hands, and their smiles revived him.

They were grabby babies- too much so. They got their little fingers caught and tangled in his curls often enough for it to be worth cutting them short. So, he did. He wondered how his mother had managed to have seven children and keep her hair long; he wondered what she would think of him now. He wondered if she’d be angry, or sad, or frustrated- he wondered if she would forgive him when all was said and done.

It wasn’t over yet. He still felt that dread in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down like a sack of flour tied to the ankle of a man thrown into the sea.

He wondered if Calima would be disappointed that he barely thought about her anymore. He had predicted this, though, and he did think of her every once in a while, and grieve all of the lost possibilities that they had. Back then, they had the potential to take things anywhere they wanted, but now he was in the present, he couldn’t imagine it going any differently.

He took the twins out into the gardens to stargaze as soon as they learnt how to walk, and showed them all of the constellations, singing to them about Varda and her stars. Then singing to them about Eärendil, who shone brighter than any of them.

_He’s watching you- he’s making sure you’re okay._

Elrond believed it- he could tell by the way his wide eyes lit up with hope. Elros didn’t respond at all. It was his fault if Elros grew to hate his father. It was his fault if he didn’t understand that he was a victim, a prisoner.

Long ago, he and Maedhros would’ve made excuses as to why they were in the right. Those days were dead and buried; their guilt was the only thing that kept them sane anymore. He had seen the look in Elwing’s eyes as she ran for the cliff’s edge; it was the same that Maedhros had in battle, that he woke up, gasping from his dreams with. He could see the echoes of trauma as she ran, repeating the only action she knew could save her.

He pitied her- all of this suffering was their fault.

In time, the twins learnt to handle his fatigue, and they would climb into bed with him and sing him lullabies the same way he sang for them and tell him stories about made up heroes and made up battles, and their healing hands would help him open his eyes to the light. Maedhros made sure that they were fed. They said that they hoped he’d get better soon, since they hated their uncle’s cooking.

_He’s not your…_

_Are you not our father?_ Because they had answers for everything.

In time, it happened less and worse, leaving him bedridden for days at a time. He stopped taking them out on Maedhros’ suggestion. He started writing lists of all of the things he’d done in the day before it came on. He started singing again.

He hadn’t sung as much since they’d left Aman, and he had felt it tearing away at his insides; the music that lived in him was clawing its way out again at last, this time filling the empty halls of their home with notes of mourning. He wandered through their rooms when he could, at first only singing an account of everything they had done- then it morphed into something else; a tale of sorrow and lament that made the air around him grow cold.

He was careful to never let the twins hear.

He was not careful enough.

They had followed him with the express intent of finally hearing this song that he refused to share, then he had felt their arms around his waist as they pulled him close. He sang them the song in its entirety, hoping that they would choose to run away at last. They never did.

The guilt took another bite every time he heard them refer to him as their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who doesn't want to write what's coming next? It's me. Maedhros has the saddest death in the whole silm and you can fight me on that. I also wanted to make it clear that I don't see Elwing in the same light as her father; she was someone who survived the second kinslaying and watched the feanorians kill her entire family- it's likely she suffered a flashback when they returned, and that's the reason why I think she ran instead of trying to protect her sons.


	11. Lonely melody.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is doomed to wander the coasts for eternity, singing his sorrows.

He didn’t feel tired anymore- nor hungry- nor thirsty; he felt his song; the one that echoed, weaving itself through the rocks at the base of the cliff, its notes rolling out over the rolling waves. He kept watching them, dreading a glimpse of light piercing their depths.

He kept seeing that beam of white light cast over his brother’s face, scars burnt clean off his skin; his eyes bearing no fear- no single hint of doubt, illuminating his very self. He kept seeing him tumble backwards into the earth, folding around that single point of bright white light.

He let the cool water soothe the burns on his hand, no longer fearing the sharp teeth of his childhood fear. The water was cold enough- gentle enough to take that risk. Besides, he deserved to be eaten.

He’d never had a strong throwing arm, but the jewel flew regardless. He hadn’t been able to hold it any longer- endure the burning. It’d been reflex. Partially.

His song drew people too close to the water’s edge; they followed the notes of his sorrow into the raging storms that always seemed to somehow avoid him. He never saw their bodies on the beach, but he found splinters of bone laid in the nooks between the rocks, thrown there by some creature of the depths.

He had screamed as he watched the end of their quest play out before his eyes; he had screamed- wailing as he let the tide rise around his knees. His tears became song soon enough. He let it echo throughout the bay. He had sat himself down in the shallows and leant back so that his hair brushed up against the barnacles.

He wasn’t sure when he had last eaten; all he knew was that the pain he felt in his stomach wasn’t from hunger. He did everything in a haze- wandering, watching the stormy skies, the crashing waves, and the gleaming sea foam that tickled in-between his toes. The skies stayed grey for a long while, the clouds too stubborn to be blown away and too proud to burst into rain. Eventually they cleared, though. And the skies above were as clear and blue as they had been on the day the sun first rose above their camp. He had feared it was some beast come to claim them.

Sometimes he wandered away from the shore, climbed over the jagged ground, uncaring of if the pointed stones cut his feet open. He stood on the dew-soft grass at the top of the cliff, watching the dark waves churning and still singing his song- his prayer- his apology. But he felt the call of the sea below, and he walked himself to the edge. He thought about how the ice-cold smack of the water against his skin would feel if he should jump and watched as the waves kept smashing at the base of the cliff- still feeling the gaze of a predator upon him.

He found his way back to the beach, with his feet settled gently in the soft sand of the shallows, watching the minnows dance around him. He watched Uinen pick them off one by one, her rose scales gleaming in the sunlight. She no longer attempted to keep her appearances mysterious- if they had even been mysterious in the first place. She was the lady of the seas, and she hid from no one.

He met her dark eyes and understood her- understood what she wanted. They watched each other closely- or rather—he watched her while she listened to him sing. He was her songbird, trained to sing only what brought him pain, and her entertainment. This was his punishment- his retribution. His song would never end.

One day, he dared to weave a question into the melody: _why?_

She dared not to answer. Or dared not answer. Either way, she left him standing along, feeling the sea spray kiss his skin as he stood watching her ripples fade away.

Eventually his voice failed, and his body collapsed, lying still as the water washed over his face, covering his cracked lips with salt-water kisses. He was just another dead fish, lying in the shallows, waiting to be stolen away for consumption by Uinen’s monsters. But she didn’t eat him- instead, she saved him. She stepped out of the water that was her home- part of her very being—and lifted his limp body from the water. She brought him fresh salmon, helped him clean and cook, reigned in the tides to keep him safe from drowning. She held him safe in her arms while he ate, promising safety. He felt a kindly gaze upon him.

And he felt another, unreadable from the waves, completely new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for physical affection (even if its from a weird fish lady that might also slightly want to feed you to her weird fish babies.) Also, I hope ya'll like Osse, because he's going to make quite a few appearances from now on.


	12. Ossë.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor isn't suicidal- he's just extremely bisexual (and also grieving the death of his son. That too.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicide mention.

He woke up on the beach again.

It wasn’t something new; in fact, this wasn’t even the first time he’d awoken on the beach in one day.

“That’s the third time this week, Macalaurë.”

He wasn’t sure he liked Ossë speaking to him so directly; he wasn’t sure he liked being that familiar with Maiar at all, especially not ones that seemed so…’off.’ It’d taken him months to come to terms with the fact that Uinen had supposedly saved him from starvation, and even longer to get used to Ossë watching him, too.

“No one calls me that, anymore- and also, stop saving me.”

“If I didn’t save you, you’d be dead.” He wasn’t showing his form today, which made it extra disconcerting to hear his voice so near. He had a beautiful voice, which made it even harder- it was musical, like the sound of a bubbling spring, though he had no doubt that if Ossë wanted to sound threatening, he’d have no trouble.

“That’s the point.” He sighed as he propped himself up against a rock, “who’s even telling you to do this?”

“Ulmo; it’s mercy.”

“No, it isn’t- in fact, I’d bet you’re only doing this to mess with me- “he flung the nearest stone he could grab into the sea. He knew that he didn’t have any body that could feel it, but it felt good anyway. Besides, so what if it was the third time in one week? He hadn’t died yet- and he wanted to- desperately so. Not for any sort of anxiety about the ‘unrelenting sadness’ he supposed the Valar believed, though. He leant back and shut his eyes.

“Why the urgency?”

“Oh, and I’d tell you why?”

He heard a shift in the waves and knew that Ossë had taken his usual form. He didn’t want to look- both of Ulmo’s Maiar were fearsome in visage, but Ossë was by far the worse of the two.

“Macalaurë.” He could hear his footsteps in the sand- the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. He closed his eyes tighter, “Macalaurë, look at me.”

He did as he was told- Ossë was much closer to him than he had anticipated. He was met with eyes like black holes, absorbing all of the light around them except for the one single gash of white scar tissue that ran all the way from his brow to his chin, as if someone had tried to cleave his face in half, but missed the centre; his skin was the colour of wet sand, but he’d seen it change and shift in hue like oil on water- his hair was long and black as ink, but he’d seen it as pure white as chalk cliffs in the sun, and it was pulled back and held in place with a string of pearls- the same kind that hung in lose chains around his neck, wrists and ankles. His teeth were sharp, but more like those of a shark- than the needlepoints that his companion sported. His skin looked eternally damp.

But Maglor wasn’t afraid of that; he was afraid because Ossë was beautiful. His features were like the carved marble of his mother’s old sculptures, and he was built strongly and firmly- his brow was contorted with a look of tender concern that made Maglor’s resolved waver. He was fearsome because of his scar- and because of what his scar meant; it was a permanent mark- a memory of a fight between spouses. Uinen explained how, when she went to get him, he was as easily spooked as dog intoxicated with the sounds of fireworks in the distance, and how he went straight to attack. She explained how she’d succumbed to the temptations of violence that had plagued her from the moment she set foot in the north and struck him with her clawed nails. She said that in that moment she had no thought of what she came to do- that her only intention had been to kill. She said they she’d awoken in bonds beside him at the bottom of the ocean, Ulmo staring her down. She said he lied on her behalf. She said he understood.

_The ocean is wild- it does not take easily to enforced order._

_But you reign in his storms, do you not?_

_And yet there are still so many- so many who drown in these waters when their boats are dashed against the jagged rocks. I don’t reign anything in._

He realised that the Valar lied- and that they were little better than any common creature, just so much more powerful.

“What do you want?” He sighed- Ossë was almost _painfully_ close.

“Your troubles, Macalaurë,” He sat down in the sand in front of him, legs crossed. The sea was calm that day, Ossë seemed tired (could maia experience exertion?)

“I received word that Elros is dead- I wanted to see him again,” He felt his voice crack on the last word, “sorry.”

Ossë reached forward and wiped one of the tears from his cheek- he hadn’t noticed he’d been crying. It wasn’t much use; Ossë’s fingers were damp, like always. He shuddered at his touch. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into the sea?”

“I suppose I’m more throwing myself to your mercy- and you don’t have any.” Those were sharp words, but they had the desired effect; Ossë pulled his hand back. He didn’t really despise him, but he didn’t want to let himself get too familiar with him- not while he was still waiting for- well, what _was_ he waiting around for?

Maybe he was still mourning his brother- but that seemed so long ago (then again, yesterday seemed like an eternity ago). Was he afraid? Certainly, but he couldn’t say honestly that he was waiting for his fear to disperse- if anything, fear was a welcome change from the crushing weight of guilt and sadness. Fear was lightweight, and that was enticing. Was it Calima? Did he still wonder what it would be like to see her again?

No.

He was adamant that he wasn’t going back, besides, Uinen had delivered him a letter a while ago; a message from Calima apologising- asking permission to move on. There was a Telerin man who wished to court her- she made sure he knew that she understood if that would be too strange for him. That made him laugh; he’d done so much for her to be ashamed by. He read it by the light of the moon and had to walk a mile to the nearest town in the night to find something with which to write any reasonable response.

He decided not to do that, and his response wasn’t nearly long or polite enough (and it was written in squid ink, because Uinen was…helpful.)

_I won’t return._

Then, because he felt like that wasn’t clear enough for the Valar:

_Do as you wish._

Then, because he felt bad about how blunt that was:

_Sorry._

But he wished he could see her again- say all the things he wanted to in person. It was the same wish he had towards all of his loved ones. But they were so far away, and he couldn’t find a way to get them back- to hold them close even for a second. He knew that he had thrown away any possible closure with the silmaril and he was glad he did, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel sadness for what wouldn’t be.

And he could feel something shifting inside of him- something slipping, and he blamed Ossë and Uinen for it. He no longer felt unable to interpret their bond- they weren’t the same as he had been told they were.

Ossë scared him. Ossë scared him because he kept being drawn back toward him- kept being drawn back to the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come join me in rarepair hell. Yes, I had this planned the whole time, and I kept wavering as to whether to actually write it or not, but I decided to stick to my guns. I hope it doesn't feel too unnatural?? There was a pretty large timeskip between the last chapter and this one, and Maglor has become a lot more familiar with the ocean maiar.


	13. Notice.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanation in chapter.

Hi! You've officially reached the end of The Wanderer- albeit not where I planned it to be. You see, thanks to school, severe fatigue and just all round lack of excitement or direction regarding the remainder of this fic, I've decided to retire it early. I had troubles with this fic during earlier stages, too, so maybe this was inevitably going to happen. Either way, I'm very sorry to cut this short.

As for future plans:

  1. I'm currently working on a new fic that I'm much more excited about (and is written in a style that's much more my forte.) This fic will have a longer space between updates because I'm putting a lot more work into it, however the first chapter should be up before the end of the month.
  2. I'm also working on some almost-canon-but-not au fic, which is going to explore a concept which I've been discussing with some of my discord friends.
  3. As for this series? This isn't the last you'll see of it! It's helped me immensely to nail down my characterisation and headcanons, however while writing, I developed new headcanons and gained new knowledge of canon which has added to my interpretations of these characters. Basically what I'm saying is that this series is going to be due a rewrite very soon, so look forward to that!



I'm also moving most of my fic to my main pseud: kanafiinwe (just to match my tumblr url.)

Thanks for reading!


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